


How Do I Live, Why Do I Breathe?

by symphorophilia (klismaphilia)



Series: Darkfics/The Fucked Up Reality In My Head [4]
Category: South Park
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Awkward Kiss, Blood and Gore, Butters doesn't understand, Dark Humor, Depression, Emotional Baggage, Everyone Needs A Hug, Fluff and Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Immortality, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Killed Kenny, M/M, Not really specified but you can kinda tell, Sexual Fantasy, Suicidal Thoughts, they always do, well except Cartman, you bastards
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-07-19 22:19:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7379662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klismaphilia/pseuds/symphorophilia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There comes a point when you've died so many times that living becomes more terrifying.</p><p>Alternatively, Kenny would rather be done with it all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Do I Live, Why Do I Breathe?

He wakes up.

 

It’s a never ending cycle, drowned out so often by the feel of cold metal penetrating his skin, or worse, being blown up, his limbs flayed and spread about like something out of a nightmarish cartoon. In some ways, it would be hilarious if it wasn’t so goddamn twisted- it isn’t like he hasn’t spent nights up late watching horror movies or browsing the ‘net for the latest gore porn whenever he has access to a computer. 

 

Somehow, the mix of anguish and sex is an almost overwhelming relief to his mind. Somehow, it might be a little more twisted than Kenny likes to admit to himself, simply because he isn’t supposed to find pleasure in torment- that’s the specialty of people like Eric Cartman, assholes who used to snap his toys as a kid or let him get run over by a car, crushed by a rock falling on his head for no goddamn reason whatsoever. It’s the thought of that sadism that seems to work its way into his head so frequently, the sound of muffled screams a dull comfort to the pain of experience. 

 

It’s an experience that, as far as anyone else was concerned, was imagined. Not simply because the thought of somebody dying over a thousand times seems so insanely fabricated it’s literally like word vomit, but more so because  _ there’s no way that can be real.  _

 

Kenny doesn’t really think too much of it anymore, aside from that rationalism has been far surpassed at this point. He thinks of being slumped over and bleeding out, thinks of holes in his body and lesions where the flesh is ripped and tattered, the feeling of death inside his body, infesting the wounds and distributing the sickness so far it’s impossible for it to be imaginary any longer.

 

He doesn’t think anyone else understands the disgust that ripples through him when he feels the sensation of something crawling inside his skin, as though there are worms in his gut, and even though his abdomen is still intact, still tightly pieced together, it’s never felt more apart. It’s even more unbelievable, now, when the thought of him  _ not  _ dying has become an almost tragic occurrence to people. Stan and Kyle- well, of course they would say they hadn’t meant it that way, but there’s no way of denying the displeasure that is drawn from living.

 

In some ways, Mysterion had been the escape, and was so close to giving him a proper answer to all the brutality that it was gut-wrenching to think he hadn’t come close. Gut-wrenching enough that when Kenny finally tore off the persona last time, he wasn’t sure it would ever fall back into place. There was too much mirth mixed into the disgust, the vileness of being forgotten and pressed back into oblivion as though it was all some sort of passing ideology. 

 

And even then, the bullet passing through his temple from his own hand hadn’t felt nearly as good as it was supposed to.

* * *

 

 

Kenny McCormick has decided at this point that being immortal wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. At least, there had been some sort of potential for a redeeming quality- maybe being able to sleep with anyone he wanted and not have them remember about it before he died, or maybe fixing a scenario so that he could have a pleasant and completely  _ glorious  _ death as opposed to having a piano dropped on his head or something of the like. But the potential for satisfaction only seemed to become less probable as time went on.

 

As much as he’d love to die with his face pressed into a woman’s chest, hopefully with the feeling of  _ absolutely fucking bodacious  _ breasts suffocating him, the chances of that happening anytime soon weren’t particularly likely. Not that committing suicide via sex would be much out of the ordinary, to be fair. The only problem was that suicides pushed him back so far that it was hard not to regress back into pain the second he woke up.

 

It was even more painful, in some ways, than getting gunned down by heavy artillery.

 

Truthfully, for someone who’d seen hell multiple times, and literally slept in the same room as Satan, living seemed a lot worse in comparison. The idle prattling and endless monotony of it all just grated on Kenny’s nerves whenever he was forced back into school. Hence why it was no surprise that he didn’t bother with showing up to classes anymore- at this point, what was the use of it anyway? Was there any real purpose in it?

 

Easier to just take a cig or walk off with a bottle of his parent’s booze that they surely wouldn’t miss. Easier to reflect on drug abuse than on reality, a reality where he was made to wake up and be forgotten about, a reality where people  _ pretended  _ they couldn’t understand what he was saying unless they wanted something particularly filthy to say to a rival (or a girl- although, in that case, you had to play the field right if you wanted to get anywhere with a line like ‘nutter butter gutter slut.’) 

 

He isn’t certain why, on this particular day, he finds himself sitting on the steps behind the cafeteria that head out to the playground, a blunt held steady between his fingers as much as they felt shaky. (Or, as much as he was convinced it’d slip out, fall away, maybe set him on fire until he started screaming from the burns sinking into his skin, thrashing about in his clothes until his movements finally stopped altogether.) Kenny’s got a fair enough mind at this point to determine that going to class was useless, that going home was useless, and that  _ life was futile.  _

 

“See, if you’re going to get slaughtered every day, there really isn’t any point in living anymore,” Kenny comments to himself from beneath the thick fabric of his familiar orange parka, flicking the blunt against the edge of the cement, until he can lean against the brick wall and let a heavy sigh escape him. “Honestly, I should volunteer for some sort of taboo necrophilic-cannibalism-amputee porno by this point.”

 

“W-well, gee… that doesn’t sound, um… v-very fun.” 

 

“Butters?” The thought crosses Kenny’s mind as soon as the voice does, and it’s such a shock to look up and see the little blond standing there, still half jittery as he absentmindedly brushes the blunt away with his foot.

 

“H-Hiya, Kenny.” 

 

Kenny hums as he tilts his head to the side and watches the kid take a seat next to him. There’s a droop to Butters’ shoulders that implies an almost nervousness. He’s crossing his arms across his chest, staring at the ground with a near-scoff on his lips that’s so unlike Butters he has to do a double take. He’s sitting up, adjusting the orange jacket around his body to best shield himself from the cold, watching the kid for a few seconds before words finally pass his lips.

 

“What’s got your panties in a knot?” It’s probably a little harsher than it should’ve been, and it only takes the widening of Stotch’s eyes for Kenny to give a half-assed frown, before he leans forward to rest a hand on Butters’ arm. “Sorry, Butters. I’m just- surprised.”

 

“Well I’m surprised too,” the other boy finally replies. “I thought you woulda known better than to skip classes...”

 

“What’s the point in going when nobody even remembers you’re there?” It’s cynical, dark, almost brooding, as Kenny tucks his hands into his pockets and pulls away to stare at the way the uneven lighting outside flashes across Butters’ face, the way he blinks a few times, still more than innocently, like he had when they were children.

 

“I-I remember,” Butters says. And then he’s tugging the corners of his lips up in an almost comforting smile as he reaches back over to grab hold of Kenny’s hand. And for a second, Kenny has to stop, the only thought in his mind a rather indecisive  _ what the fuck?  _ before he’s clearing his throat.

 

“Do you remember me dying, too? Killing myself? Any of it? Because nobody else seems to give a  _ fuck _ .”

 

Butters seems stunned into silence. And it’s only then that Kenny finally pulls away, struggling back to his feet and letting his friend’s eyes watch him with an almost tearful expression.

 

He doesn’t know why he does it. He doesn’t know, because all it’s going to do is make things more painful, when Butters won’t remember any of this later on, won’t remember if he just up and  _ dies  _ afterwards, because nobody does. But it’s the pain, the burden of being immortal and-

 

\-- Kenny leans down and presses his lips against the boy’s forehead gently, briefly, with an almost hesitant crack in his voice.

 

“Bye, Butters.” He offers the blonde a wave, lets his hand rest on the railing for a moment as he looks out toward the cloudy sky and the grey atmosphere of South Park.

  
Kenny starts walking. He doesn’t spare a glance behind him.

**Author's Note:**

> first work I've ever done for south park... was hesitant in writing this because I didn't want to fuck up the characters too much (let's be honest, Stone and Parker, you are gods) but anyway... yeah.
> 
> comments/kudos on this trash would be cool. :)


End file.
